Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(22)

But Mary was speaking the truth.

He frowned, ill at ease. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have thought of marrying you, though you are wholly wrong on one point: I certainly would’ve given you a second look.”

She shook her head slightly. “If you had looked, it would’ve been with an entirely different thought than marriage.”

He bowed his head. “I don’t mean to insult you.”

“No,” she said. “I only speak the truth, for I have been on both sides, you see. I’ve been both a pigeon and a dove. We may think that little separates us. That one woman is like any other—she has eyes and ears, a mouth and throat, a heart that beats and a mind that thinks. We may think that what differences there are between women are small: one woman may dance until dawn while the other must rise at dawn to sweep the steps. But those same differences are everything when it comes to marriage.” She smiled a little sadly, her large brown eyes so discerning it took his breath away as she said softly, “A man such as you will never even consider taking to wife a maidservant—any more than the ringed dove would think the common bluey-green pigeon a proper wife. That is the way of the world—both in humans and in birds—and I think nothing will ever change it.”

He took her hand, which had been lying beside her plate, and raised it to his lips and murmured close to her knuckles, “You are wise beyond my understanding. I must think myself incredibly lucky that fate has given you to me to marry.” He glanced up, meeting her eyes, trying to convey to her his utmost sincerity. “I am blessed that you are Lady Cecilia Angrove and thus will be my wife—and I hope to never forget that.”

She smiled shyly at him.

He straightened and turned his head, catching the Earl of Angrove’s eye. The man didn’t look particularly glad to see his newfound daughter happy, but then Henry had always thought the man a bit of a cold fish. Angrove hadn’t even been terribly perturbed when Henry told him they’d been shot at.

He only hoped that the earl cared enough to worry for his daughter’s safety.





Chapter Eight



A castle could be seen from the shore, and Clio set out for it with Triton stomping morosely behind. The first land man they met apparently thought that Clio would make a good wife, but Triton changed his mind by punching him in the stomach. He had to dissuade four other potential suitors before they made the castle, but then they had a bit of luck: the prince was on his horse in front of the castle gates.…

—From The Curious Mermaid



Late the next morning Mary took a deep breath and reaffirmed her determination not only to learn to dance but also to refrain from doing bodily harm to Mr. Pierre Lafitte, the dancing master.

“Again!” Mr. Lafitte cried in a horrible French accent that Mary was beginning to have grave doubts about. He slammed the long cane he used to keep time on the floor.

Mr. Lafitte’s assistant, an elderly man with a full-bottomed white wig, started awake at his place at the harpsichord and hastily began playing.

Lord Blackwell, her unfortunate practice dance partner, bowed, a small smile playing about his mouth.

The mouth she’d dreamed about last night. In her dreams he’d kissed her again, and it had been every bit as exciting as the kiss in the garden.

Would a second kiss in reality live up to that first one?

She curtsied, trying to will down her embarrassment. It was simply excruciating learning to dance in front of her fiancé. She felt a clumsy fool.

“Lower!” snapped Mr. Lafitte. He was a short little man with an extravagantly curled white wig, and he held himself as importantly as a king.

Mary felt heat climb her cheeks at the reprimand, but she obediently sank lower.

Lord Blackwell held out his hand, and Mary placed her fingers in his palm as they slowly paced around each other.

“Buck up,” he whispered. “You’re already a better dancer than half of the ladies I escort onto the dance floor.”

Mary gave him a small smile even as Mr. Lafitte called out more instructions.

“There you are,” he whispered as they stood side by side, arms raised, hands linked, and carefully paced forward. “The gentlemen will be lining up to dance with you. I shall be overcome by jealousy and have to call them all out.”

She sent him a chiding glance as they separated and paced back down the room, an invisible line of dancers between them. When they met again, she murmured, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He cocked his head at her as they moved through the steps of the dance. “It’s hardly ridiculous to defend your honor from the men who will want you.” He looked more somber as they paced around each other. “And there will be men who want you.”

“Do you?” she asked before she could think better of it. “Want me?”

“Oh yes.” His gaze was entirely serious now, and something seemed to burn behind his blue eyes. “I think of you at night when I’m in bed and I wish you were there so I could—”

“Enough!” Mr. Lafitte cried suddenly, making his assistant strike a discordant note. “We will attempt the dance once more, this time without discussion.”

Mary wanted to cry at the interruption. What had Lord Blackwell been about to say?

Mr. Lafitte lifted his stick again, presumably to slam it back to the floor, but before he could, the viscount spoke.